The Final Moments Of Karl Croyden Member of the Survey Corps
by PurpleNatsu
Summary: I wasn't sure about uploading this but what harm could it do? The final moments of a member of the Survey Corps and what goes through their head, sorry it's so short. Criticism is very welcome, I am always looking for ways to improve. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy :) I DO NOT OWN ATTACK ON TITAN/ SHINGEKI KYOJIN


In a cold, wet field covered in a mixture of mud, blood and piss, Karl Croyden sat waiting to die. He tried to pro-long his life by hiding behind the corpse of some poor sod's horse but as the previous insides of the mule's bowels soaked through his tattered, survey corps uniform he knew that this pathetic attempt at concealing himself was completely futile. He was in open ground, a couple hundred miles away from any chance of safety, and his only method of escape had been drained of it's life blood about 10 minutes ago and had taken it's final breath promptly after crapping all over him, it's fair to say that the situation hadn't turned in his favor. He thought about this as the ground shook again. He wondered if the Titan who owned those footsteps had spotted him or somebody else. He wasn't sure which of those options he preffered. And then there was more screaming. More bloody screaming. Make them stop fucking screaming, what the hell is screaming going to do? If anything it will attract more of those buggers and then there'll be more screaming, and then more and more untill every unlucky member of this damned squad is rotting nicely in a monsters stomach untill it decides to throw them up in ditch somewhere. If he was going to be eaten, Karl would have much rather been cooked at the very least! Bit of Fucking veg on the side to flavour his lifeless body as it's tossed into a giant cooking pot and he's eaten with a bit more class then being ripped from the ground and bitten in two, blood, guts, bones, the lot. Even his bloody clothes! He stopped thinking about the ways he could be cooked and began wondering if everybody has such screwed up thoughts before they die or if it was just him, he hoped it was just him because if it was everyone then the entirety of the human race basically becomes psycopaths in their final moments. And that would be worrying, he thought. Karl looked down at his blood covered body. His survey corps cape had been completely ripped apart when he had fallen of his steed and tumbled across the battlefield, his world spinning as he heard the sounds of his friends and comrades dying , pleading to their Gods before their life came to a premature end. It was their fault for joining this brach and Karls imminent death was his fault as well. Astoundingly, the straps that helped balance his body while the 3-d maneuver gear was in use, were hardly scratched. The factory workers really were as good as their reputation. Unfortunately the maneuver gear itself had not been so lucky. Only one of the metal boxes was still attached to his hips and that one looked like it had been hit with a mallet several times over. The rest of his standard issue SC uniform was in varying states of dis-repair. The weird skirt thing that they had been given was only half there, the other half in a pile of mud somewhere, Part of his thigh was exposed as his trousers had been ripped but his short jacket was in reasonable condition and his shirt was still in one piece. Karl lifted his blade untill he could see his reflection in the metal. Just as he thought. His once neat, flowing blonde hair had been tainted to the red colour of blood, his emerald green eyes barely noticeable under the thick blanket of straw like material that covered the top of his head. He turned his gaze to his cheek, a fresh wound flowed freely, covering a chunk of his face with the wine-like liquid that dropped of the bottom of his chin and onto his leg. His chin was grazed and his nose was bent at an angle that it clearly had no right to be in. That would hurt in the morning... He remembered. He was never going to see another morning, was he? Never wake up to the smell of freshly baked bread and the lips of his beautiful Johanna as she pulled him into an embrace, their fingers entwined with each other's, their warm breath caressing the other's cheek, their eyes locked for a minute or so as they basked in each others presence. Never again would he feel her body warmth against his own, never again would they climb into bed and chat about their day for an hour before they gave into the tiredness. Never again. Never again... As he stared into his sword he realised that he didn't have to die between a set of teeth, he could end it himself. Slay himself with a blade meant for titans, a story book death. The razor sharp edge had never tasted blood before, would his be the first to land upon its cold, metal tongue? Possibly. He lifted it up, realising that this was something he had to do as he placed it against his chest. Even with only a miniscule amount of pressure it pushed through his shirt and sent a single trickle of blood down his body and into his lap, he started to apply a bit more force and he felt it break a slightly deeper wound into his chest. Shots of pain run up his body as he scrunched up his face, baring his teeth, breathing heavily. Strange. None of his other injuries, of which there was an abundance, hurt at all, not his broken nose, his cracked head, his bruised and bloody leg, none of it. This however carried not just an immense pysical pain but also the pain of despair, the self loathing that giving up brought, intensified when he realised that he didn't haave the courage to do this deed. Letting out a string of heavy gasps, he flung the sword onto the floor, a couple of centimetres away from him. He shouted. Shouted in pain and anger. How could he give up? He couldn't die here, what a pathetic idea! He had to get home, see his wife, they still had to start a family, he could not die here. He was going to survive for her sake, and the sake of their unborn children. He truly believed this even as the giant fingers grasped hold of his body, even as he coughed up blood onto the sharp fingernails that pressed through his skin, even as his back broke and his snapped bones punctured the interior of his body, even as he did what he promised not to and let out a gurgled scream.


End file.
